


Here we belong

by crwatters



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Crowley accidentally created anxiety, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Excessive use of italics, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Historical References, Humor, I read a lot of papers and did a lot of googling but that doesn't mean I'm an expert folks, Idiots in Love, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Major Character Undeath, Marriage Proposal, Nightmares, Podfic Welcome, So don't worry, TOO MUCH, The Princess Bride References, aka it only happens in a dream, based on a comic (see link in notes), blame De Beers for artificial inflation of diamond prices, capitalism is a bitch like that, possibly inaccurate, they're morosexuals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2020-08-13 03:07:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20167135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crwatters/pseuds/crwatters
Summary: Years have passed after the not-pocalypse, and our favorite couple has decided it's time to follow human traditions and get married. Crowley reminisces and buys a ring, and Aziraphale is hiding something. These two idiots are very much in love and tend to do everything together, whether they intend to or not.Mild content warning for cussing and a horrible dream in which both die (bc Angst)





	Here we belong

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [this comic/post on tumblr](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/505849) by Strudelcreep. 

> Thank you for giving me permission to write this, strudel!
> 
> Title from the lyrics of "Princes of the Universe" by Queen. This song was written about the two of them, fight me.

It'd been a couple years since Crowley had moved into the flat above the bookshop. A significant amount of time for humans, but just a drop in the pond for them. Nonetheless, his and Aziraphale’s relationship had intensified drastically after the apocalypse-that-wasn’t. What really changed things, however, was after a particularly awful nightmare, the first one Aziraphale was around for.

* * *

It was a week after Adam had restored the world to almost (but not quite) to what it was before. Crowley had been practically glued to Aziraphale’s side all week, but had still managed to force himself to go back to his own flat every night. He didn’t want to encroach on Aziraphale’s space _ too _ much. Not that ‘Zira seemed to mind. But it was the principle of the thing.

Besides, he was just as anxious with Aziraphale or not. It was just a less devastating kind of anxiety when he was with ‘Zira, because Crowley could reassure himself the angel was alright. Aziraphale must’ve noticed how on edge Crowley was all week, but he didn’t say anything. Maybe that’s why he didn’t mind Crowley following him like a lost pup all day every day. But it was surely annoying, after a while, right? ‘Zira just cared about him as a friend, was vaguely worried, and so too kind to shoo him away. There was, after all, no way his angel knew what was going through Crowley’s head every time they were apart. Crowley was sure ‘Zira would try to corner him about his anxiousness eventually, and had no idea what to say. How did you explain to your best friend that you were hopelessly in love with them, had been since forever, and had been (figuratively) torn to pieces when you’d thought they’d perished in hellfire? You couldn’t. Best case scenario, Azira would avoid him for a couple weeks (during which Crowley’s nightmares would worsen horridly, he was certain) and then they could pretend it never happened and go back to being friends. Worst case scenario? Aziraphale would be horrified, disgusted, never want to see Crowley again. ‘Zira would leave, and Crowley would let him. He would let his only friend in the universe walk out the door, never to return, because he loved him too much. So he had to go back to his flat every night and try to keep the worst of his anxiety under wraps. Try as much as possible to keep Azira from worrying too much, from asking questions. Because Crowley had a really, really hard time lying to his angel.

It might help, dear readers, to understand that Crowley had hung the stars and caused the Original Sin, but he’d also invented Overthinking. And, inadvertently, sometime between the Garden and the Ark, he’d also invented Anxiety. Crowley, thankfully, had never realized this. If he had, he would be an even worse demon than he was. It’d be a miracle if he managed to go one day without apologizing (silently or otherwise) to nearly every human he came into contact with. But he didn’t, and his guilt about the Original Sin had long ago become white noise in his mind. 

And so, Crowley, creator of Anxiety, really really should’ve had a therapist.

But of course, he didn’t. Instead, he got ridiculously plastered with the love of his life a week after his world nearly ended*. 

(*If God kept a book of things that were Not Recommended, this definitely would’ve made the top five. Go to therapy, kids.)

Crowley was so drunk, in fact, his filter was slipping. 

“Took ‘tall fa granted, before, y’know. This isss ‘ovely, theses nights. Jus’, dreen-- drinking with you.”

Aziraphale moved his head in a way that could be interpreted as a sort of bob, agreeing “mhm”.

“Never really, _ hic _ , told ya how much you’re worth. ‘S millions, billyons, more than anything. Ya ver’ ssssspecial, a lot. T’ _ me _ , a lot t’me. ‘N now, we’ve a chanccccce, _ hic _ . Mayb’ do some’f’tha things I’ve dram--dreee-- have _ dreamed _ about. Ya in them a lot, dreamsssss. Pickni’s, happy ons, Rizzz, an’ uthers too. Don’ wanna talk ‘bout those. But good ones, ya shoul’ see them, would be good.”

Aziraphale, while no where near the realm of sobriety, was a great deal closer than Crowley.

“You _ dream _ ‘bout me?”

Crowley’s head rolled to the side as he tried and failed to nod. His hand waved a half-empty wine bottle around precariously. 

“ ‘coursssse. You’re ‘Zira.”

Aziraphale’s drunken brain was still trying to fully process the things Crowley said when he noticed the demon in question had passed out.

The dreams Crowley had mentioned were ones he’d been having for ages before the almost-apocalypse turned them all into nightmares. Innocent, usually. Picnics with the angel, dinner at the Ritz, sometimes a kiss, sometimes about a cottage they could get together. Aziraphale petting his snake form, or simply basking in the angel’s warmth. On occasion they got more R-rated, but even wasted as he was, Crowley would never mention_ those _. 

Aziraphale, of course, only had a vague idea of what Crowley had meant. He had good dreams about Aziraphale, sometimes involving the Ritz. Hope had flared in his chest at the thought. He meant a lot to the demon, apparently. Could the demon love him? _ Ya shoul’ see them. _

Logic, as you may know, does **not** get along with alcohol. Aziraphale had half-formed thoughts about his love for the demon, the demon’s apparent affection for him, and something about these dreams. And that one bit Crowley had said. _ Ya shoul’ see them. _ Right before he’d <strike> passed out </strike> fallen asleep. To drunken Aziraphale, this meant an invitation. 

Normally, Crowley took care to sober up before he passed out.

Normally, Crowley wasn’t this open with Aziraphale.

Normally, Aziraphale would never breach Crowley’s privacy like this.

But, normally, they weren’t three sheets to the wind after the world almost ended.

So, Aziraphale decided to accept this invitation, and go see these dreams Crowley wanted to share with him, apparently. He laid a hand on the demon’s shoulder, and plunged into his dreams.

At first, there was nothing, a drunken mind just muddling its way into this sleep thing. But a drunken mind is not a restful one; it can’t truly go into deep sleep, no matter how things appear.

So, sooner rather than later, the beginnings of a dream began to form. And Aziraphale watched.

A wisp of green. The sense of soft blue eyes.

Then, a rush of anxiety. Something was wrong. Time was running out. _ Angel. The world. _

Green became red, blood, orange, fire red. An image came into focus. Standing on a cliff of dead grass. Air hot and red. Something was wrong, everything was wrong. _ Late late late. _

Closer to the edge of the cliff, felt like something was pushing on his back. Had to get closer, had to see. Dead grass crunched. Smoke on the edge of the dream, curling around, reaching. 

Smell of sulfur, smell of burning humans. _ Too late _. 

Below the cliff, way down, pools of lava came into focus, burning. Sputtering, spewing. Like an eruption. _ I failed. _

A giant dragon rose from beneath the cliff, ‘til it was almost eye-level. Dark currant scales, glinting in the light of lava and fire. War. War had become a massive dragon, intent on destroying everything. War’s wings were golden-orange. Then, the wings came into extreme focus. On them crouched 10 million angels. They clung on like parasites, hitching a ride to the end of the world. Their holy auras glowed, and it was more terrible than the fires beneath.

Suddenly there was an awareness that the earth was below the cliff, below the dragon, near the fires and lava. _ Too close. _

Harmonious chanting came from the angels, a holy battle cry. War reared its head and _ roared _, shaking everything. 

The massive dragon began to dive towards the innocent world, and time slowed. Was his angel there, heralding the end of times? Was Aziraphale riding into battle with the Host?

_ No, it’s worse _. A glance over the angels on the dragon revealed he was not there. A scream tore through the dream.

Looked up. There was his angel. Bloodied, broken wings, falling, _ Falling _. 

He falls past the cliff, catching fire, reaching out. Eyes wide, afraid. Clouded blue.

_ Too good for Hell, too good, _ Aziraphale was Falling, and he would surely die. The fires and lava were _ too close, too close _. It was Hellfire. Hadn’t realized, always had been?

Aziraphale’s broken wings were burning up, he couldn’t save himself. He was falling, falling too fast, nothing in the dream could move. 

His fall couldn’t be stopped.

_ No no NO _

He was going, gone. 

Anguish swept over everything. It all melted away, then there were different flames.

The bookshop was burning again. All his angel’s precious books, everything that was left of Aziraphale was aflame. Smoke filled the air, the shelves were columns of fire, Azirahale’s favorite armchair was turning to ash.

_ AZIRAPHALE _

Water hit him in the side again, all the force of the fire hose. This time, however, it was Holy water. Burning, melting. He was ending. Of course he was. Aziraphale was gone, the world had ended, the bookshop was burning.

Why should he be any different?

The dream ended and the pair jerked awake, shaking and crying.

Without really thinking about it, Aziraphale miracled them both sober. There was the lurching, terrible feeling of alcohol leaving their bodies, and then they were left to contend with what just happened. Crowley had curled in on himself instinctively, his breath coming in rapid spurts and the tears still streaming down his face.

Aziraphale stared at him for a minute, dumbfounded. Then he mentally shook himself, and pulled Crowley into a hug. Crowley didn’t even pretend to resist, just curled around Aziraphale and clung on as tight as he could. Aziraphale rubbed his back in what he hoped was a soothing manner.

“I hadn’t realized I meant so much to you. What a fool I am,” the angel murmured softly. He hadn’t meant for Crowley to hear, but of course he did, close as they were.

Crowley pulled back, beautiful yellow eyes tinged with an awful red.

“What?”

Aziraphale reached up, wiping away Crowley’s tears without thinking. Crowley caught his hand. They looked at each other. Seconds passed, some sort of tension between them.

“What,” Crowley repeated, his voice low, vulnerable, “did you mean by _ that _?”

Aziraphale took a shaky breath. “I’m sorry-- I shouldn’t have-- we were drunk and I-- you must understand I wouldn’t usually break your privacy--”

“_ Out with it _.”

“I saw your nightmare.” Aziraphale broke eye contact.

“Oh.” It was an awful, quiet thing. Crowley began to untangle himself from his angel. 

“Wait, Crowley,” the demon paused. ‘Zira looked back up, and met Crowley’s eyes. They were conflicted, anxious. Aziraphale couldn’t remember what he’d meant to say.

“I-- I’m sorry, it won’t happen again, but…”

“‘S okay, angel. I understand. I should-- I’ll get going.” Crowley started to stand, but Aziraphale grabbed his arm, stopping him a second time.

“No! I mean-- I love you.” 

His heart pounded; he hadn’t meant to say that. Had just blurted it out.

“I-- I’m sorry for invading your privacy, but I understand now, you’ve been on edge all week and I hadn’t said anything, thought it would pass, but it was because you love me, you’d thought you’d lost me. I hadn’t realized, should’ve put the pieces together. But please don’t give up hope again like that, please. I’m here, and even if I wasn’t I can’t bear the thought that you would feel like-- I mean-- oh _ fuck _ it. I love you so _ so _ much and want you to have all the happiness in the world, my dear.”

Crowley opened his mouth to respond, but instead found himself surging towards his angel. He pulled them into a kiss, their mouths crashing against each other. ‘Zira made a little “mmf!” of surprise before melting into it, curling his fingers in Crowley’s hair.

Crowley never spent another night in his apartment.

* * *

Of course, Crowley mused as he walked around the little store, they had still had a lot of things things discuss and work through. And his nightmares and anxiety didn’t just evaporate. But Aziraphale was there for every nightmare and panic attack after that, and helped ground him. His angel-- bookish as he was-- bought new books from his trader acquaintances on psychological theories, on what humans had discovered about nightmares and anxiety. For weeks, that was all he read. Books he thought would help him help Crowley.

Eventually, things got better. Their relationship developed, and Crowley officially moved his things into Aziraphale’s flat above the shop and sold his. Between their terror of Crowley and the encouragement they got from Aziraphale, Crowley’s plants grew better than they ever had. It probably also helped that Crowley was happy in the bookshop and less prone to digging up plants in a fit of frustration.

“Can I help you find anything, sir?”

Crowley blinked away his musings and looked up at the jeweler behind the counter.

“Ah, maybe. Looking for an engagement ring. Something not so typical though.”

The jeweler scrunched his brows together. “Hm, nontraditional you mean?”

Crowley nodded.

“How nontraditional are we talking? A stone other than diamond, does she like sapphire, maybe? Or are you thinking something--”

“He.”

The jeweler smiled and winked, “Ah, I understand. Nontraditional in that we’re looking for a _ masculine _ ring.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatcha got?”

Shrugging off Crowley’s rudeness, the jeweler directed him to a display a few paces over. “We don’t carry a wide variety, I’m afraid, but if you see something close to what you’d like, we can do custom orders, within reason. We have some simple gold bands, but titanium has gotten really popular with men these days.”

Crowley bent over to examine the rings. Some were just simple bands. Others had a metal inlay in some sort of design, and then of course there were ones with stones. Most of them were small, but there were a few rings with larger stones.

He was looking at the ones with the thinnest bands when he remembered a conversation they’d had a year or so ago, about different kinds of rings. Crowley chuckled softly. The jeweler looked at him quizzically, but Crowley waved him off. 

“Just something my partner said once.”

* * *

They’d been drinking tea upstairs, sharing anecdotes that they’d kept under wraps through the years.

“You know,” Aziraphale began, cheeks flushing, “you remember how nipple piercings were popular in the Victorian era?”

Crowley nearly spat out his tea. “Angel, _ did you get nipple rings _?” 

Aziraphale looked away, a tad embarrassed. “Not quite, uh…”

Crowley couldn’t take it and started giggling laughing. “Not QUITE? What’d you do, get one piercing done and then have regrets and run out of the parlor half-naked?”

Aziraphale sent him a glare, but couldn’t maintain it, so he took a sip of tea to hide his amusement.

“No, I didn’t go. Made the appointment and everything though. I thought it’d catch your attention,” he muttered the last bit. “Being in fashion with the times, for once. And, also, drawing attention to my corporeal form. But I wasn’t sure I would ever be dressed down enough for you to notice them, and the process sounded painful, so in the end I decided not to do it.”

“You wanted your nipples pierced because you thought it’d help me notice how _ hot _ you were?”

It was a good thing Crowley didn’t need to breathe, because in the moments following, he couldn’t. It was too much, and he was laughing so hard he was crying and his sides hurt. After a minute, Aziraphale joined him.

Crowley wasn’t so sure what was so funny about the thought of his angel making an appointment to get nipple piercings to impress him, it just _ was. _ Hysterical, wonderful, ridiculous.

He loved him so much.

* * *

Crowley decided Aziraphale would probably like something a bit more than a simple thin band. He discarded the thicker bands as well; there had to be plenty of room for wedding rings, should they decide to follow that human custom as well.

Then, one of the more frilly rings caught his attention. It had a stone that was much too big for Crowley’s taste, but it had little symbols on either side of the stone that reminded Crowley of wings in their placement. Infinity symbols, he remembered the humans called them. Inspired by the Mobius twist or something like that. A bit silly for a human relationship, perhaps, but, well, they were immortal beings. Wasn’t that the point of him asking ‘Zira to follow this human tradition, anyway? In hopes that his angel wanted to be with him forever?

G-- Someone, he was such a sap.

“You said you can do custom rings, right?”

“Yes, what do you have in mind?”

“Something like this,” Crowley pointed, “but with that darker metal -- titanium? -- and a much smaller stone. Maybe one that could be set more evenly with in line with the rest of the band?”

“I assume you mean not raised much above the infinity signs?”

Crowley nodded. The jeweler -- Matt, his nametag said-- pulled out a small notebook and started jotting stuff down. “Do you want to keep the infinity signs rose gold, or do you want them titanium as well? Or maybe silver?”

“Silver works.”

“Alright, and do you want the stone to stay a diamond or would you like to switch it out for something else?”

“Leave it.” Crowley paused, “actually, could you get a vintage diamond? Something with a history, a story? He likes older things, stories, all that.” Crowley scratched the back of his head, not sure he had put his thoughts to words that made sense.

They did, apparently.

“An old romantic?” Matt smiled knowingly, “I can’t promise, but I can definitely try. I’ll look through our inventory and talk to our sister stores. What number can I call you at, when I get things together or in case there are any complications in the process?”

“Don’t call me, just text,” Crowley said, then added a “please” as an afterthought. Aziraphale, making him feel the need to be polite, even though the angel wasn’t here. Bless him.

“Will do. Now, since this is a custom design, I’d like you to sign something real quick, for legal purposes mostly, stating that you will pay a downpayment of $500, and the rest of the quoted price -- here -- when the piece is completed to your satisfaction.”

Crowley looked at the quote. It was a lot. Worth it though, for his angel. In times past he would’ve just miracled up the money, but he’d heard Aziraphale’s spiel about inflation and morality yada yada enough times that he wouldn’t. He shook his head slightly; his money came from mostly legal business these days, too! 

As he signed the paper, Crowley mentally promised himself he’d embezzle money from the rich with more frequency. Maybe do a couple of proper thefts, for old times’ sake. Not that anyone was counting anymore. Which was good, because neither head office would particularly care for an angel and a demon partaking in this particular human tradition. 

* * *

Crowley had considered the whole marriage thing before, but they hadn’t really discussed the idea until the previous week.

A young lady (who worked at a restaurant just down the block) had popped by the bookshop to sell Aziraphale a couple of books she’d had laying around in the attic. Crowley had been in his snake form, at the time, napping in a patch of sun.

Once the book transaction was happily complete, she asked Aziraphale, “is your husband around? I was hoping to ask his opinion on a mystery sickness one of my orchids has contracted.”

Crowley’s eyes popped open at this, and he slithered slowly out of view to change forms while ‘Zira sputtered.

“W-we’re not, I mean, we haven’t-- we’re together of course but--”

“You two aren’t married yet? Huh, I honestly thought you two would be one of the couples to line up as soon as it was legalized.”

“What ‘Zira wants to say,” Crowley drawled as he sauntered up to the register, “is that he prefers to take time with these things. And I don’t particularly feel the need to rush it either. We’re together in all the ways that matter most to us, and the rest will come in time.”

“Oh,” was all she said, seeming to sense (belatedly) that she’d made things awkward. “Well, alright. Er, thanks for taking the books Mr Fell.”

She hurried out the door, not bothering to ask Crowley about her orchid.

Whether or not Crowley send a demonic miracle her way to perk up the plant so she didn’t feel the need to come back soon was no one’s business, really.

Before silence could really settle between them, Aziraphale spoke up. “That was nice of you,” he murmured.

Crowley shrugged. 

“More eloquent that I was managing, too.” 

“You were flustered, angel. When one of us can’t do something, the other picks it up. It’s what we’ve always done.”

“Thank you, love.”

Crowley gave Aziraphale one of his soft smiles, the kind that no one else in the universe ever got to see.

A couple seconds passed.

“Do you think,” Aziraphale hesitated, “do you think we should? Get married I mean.”

“Would you like to?”

“I asked first.”

Crowley glowered playfully. “I don’t think ‘should’ has anything to do with it. It’s just another human thing, and all the people that matter know already. There is something to be said for the publicity of it though.”

His angel smiled in what was almost a smirk. “You mean if there was a ring on my finger you’d have fewer flirtatious young men to shoo away.”

The demon reddened and looked away. “Something like that,” he muttered.

“I do suppose that would make things easier. And I think I’d like the ceremony of it all.”

“Translation: you’re a sap,” Crowley smirked, teasing. “And don’t try to deny it, I seem to remember you crying while we watched The Princess Bride.”

“It was a very romantic story! And I saw you sniff too, old serpent,” ‘Zira wagged his finger accusatorily. “You might hide it better, but you’re just as much of a sap as I am!”

Crowley sighed, leaning against the counter. “As you wish. We’ll get married, with a proper proposal and everything.”

Aziraphale grabbed him by the front of his shirt and pulled him down into a kiss.

* * *

Crowley had begun piecing together a plan for the proposal that night. In slightly less than a month, they had their now-annual “we stopped the apocalypse, wahoo” dinner at the Ritz. What better place to propose than the nicest restaurant they went to in celebration of their greatest accomplishment together?

The drive back home from the jeweler’s was uneventful. Now that he had a ring in the works, he just had to try and figure out_ how _he was going to bring it up in conversation when they were at the Ritz. 

Maybe just a nonchalant “I have a new Arrangement to propose, if you’ll take this into consideration” and slide the ring over?

No, not quite. He liked the idea of proposing a new “Arrangement”, but that particular approach was too cold, not romantic enough.

“We’ve been together in one way or another for 6000 years, will you do me the honor of joining me in one more way?”?

Maybe. Bit odd though, for a public human place, especially since humans these days were prone to taking video of this kind of thing.

Crowley continued pondering it on his way home. Aziraphale had left earlier, pestering some fellow book traders about a rumor he’d heard of an unpublished Mary Shelley book floating around. Crowley had just said he’d leave for the afternoon too, citing “errands”.

He hoped Aziraphale didn’t ask, he really hated lying to his angel. Even if this was a good kind of surprise.

Luckily, when he got back to the store, Aziraphale was too busy rambling about Mary Shelley and what was known about her life and works to ask Crowley for specifics. He seemed slightly nervous, but Crowley couldn’t figure out why, and it didn’t seem terribly important, so he didn’t ask. Besides, his angel would tell him if anything was the matter. And if he got even more nervous later, Crowley could ask then.

Aziraphale relaxed more the longer they talked though, so Crowley just made some tea and listened to his passionate rambles.

_ He’s so precious like this. _

Aziraphale, dear readers, hadn’t gone to see his fellow book traders at all. He too was keeping something secret, and rambling to keep Crowley from catching on to his deception.

Three days later, the jeweler texted Crowley, asking him to come in and examine a diamond he’d chosen.

“It’s only a third of a carat,” Matt began apologetically, showing Crowley the stone on a black cloth. A small, intense light illuminated the facets of the gem. “And the shape is imperfect. The color is alright, slight yellowing is detectable by a trained eye, but should be imperceptible to the casual viewer.”

“What is special about it, then?” Crowley could tell the man was both nervous and eager about his selection, but really wanted him to _ hurry the fuck up _ and get to the point.

“You said your partner likes stories, and history. This stone is from India, predating the discovery of the De Beers mines in South Africa. We don’t have record of when exactly it was found, or which mine, but we do know it passed through Golconda in 1695. Golconda was a famous diamond trading center, so it’s possible the diamond was mined that same year, but most definitely in the same decade.”

Crowley waved for him to move on. He didn’t want to be here all day and make ‘Zira worry.

“Right, sorry, passionate about this kind of thing. Anyway, so after passing through Golconda, it was eventually sold to a distant relative of Nadir Shah, an Abdul. It was one of many precious stones he had added to a collar, which was stolen by thieves. However, the next recorded highway robbery attempted by this band of thieves failed, and they were captured and killed. The collar was not recovered, and wasn’t found until it turned up in a Portuguese port in 1777. From there it ended up in law enforcement custody, mildly damaged, but as they were unable to figure out where it came from, it remained with an official by the name of Leonor Soares Henriques Pais. It stayed in a trunk of trinkets and whatnot for 3 generations, forgotten. Then the family estate burned down, and looters stole the trunk. 3 months later, the collar turned up -- horribly damaged, but still a match for the description -- at an artisan’s shop in Lisbon with a request that he save as many gems as possible and rework them into a bracelet. The bracelet was then sold and resold several times before it caught the eye of a courtier to Queen Isabella the second of Spain. He gifted it to his wife, but following the 1868 revolution, they donated or sold many of their items and fled the region. The bracelet was gifted to a little church in their hometown, along with some other jewelry of theirs. It remained in the church until they disbanded in 1956, at which time a former church member, Maria Santiago, acquired it. She gifted it to her British cousin, Emily Schmidt during the latter’s visit in 1960. Emily returned to England and wrote a letter thanking Maria for the bracelet in August of that same year. She gifted it to her granddaughter, Elizabeth, in the ’90s. A few years ago Elizabeth passed it off to her friend Rohan, a history professor at Oxford who makes a hobby of collecting odd things of questionable historical significance. The bracelet was badly damaged by the time he got hold of it, suffering from years of wear and tear, but he was suitably intrigued by the bracelet and traced its origins.”

Crowley was impressed. It was a much longer tale than he’d been wanting to hear, but it was interesting, and he felt like Aziraphale would appreciate the history of it more than he had. Recalling they’d been in India around the same time as the diamond was first being shuffled around, Crowley wondered if they’d met the original thieves. Pity they’d been killed, but ah well. That was humans for ya.

“So, I assume this professor is a friend of yours?”

“Yes, Rohan and I get along quite well and he consults me from time to time on precious stones or metals that find their way into his collection. I remembered the bracelet from a visit a few months ago, and asked if the bracelet still held value to him. He said he’d found as much as he was able on it, and showed me the rather extensive file. I explained why I was after it, recalling a diamond being one of the set stones. Rohan was reluctant to part with it, but agreed I have done much consulting through the years without asking for much in return, and this was little to ask, really. So I extracted the stone from its setting with the promise I would put it back without damaging the bracelet any further should you not want it. He’d like to meet with you, and perhaps your partner, in the future, if you’re amenable,” Matt shrugged. “He just wants to see who the new owners are, I believe. Add it to the file.”

Crowley nodded slowly, taking the information in. “Yeah, we can meet with him, assuming Aziraphale says yes. Sounds like the kind of guy ‘Zira would be good friends with, ‘specially if he’s fond of old books.”

“Oh yes, Rohan has a few books in his collection. I confess I don’t know anything about them, though.”

Crowley waved him off. “I’d like a copy of the professor’s file, preferably bound in a nice folio. If you give me his contact info with it and the ring as well, I’ll contact him when we’d like to meet.”

“So that means this is the diamond you’d like set in the ring?”

“Yes, yes, of bloody course. It’s a more interesting rock than I’d expected. Put in in the ring.” Crowley sounded cross, but you must understand, dear readers, that he simply was impatient with excitement. The ring was going to be _ perfect _ . Aziraphale would _ have _ to say yes.

Not that Crowley had any real doubts that ‘Zira would. Just, you know, anxiety.

* * *

Crowley and Aziraphale had been to India (then the Moghul Empire) in the early 1700’s. 

“Head office needs me to go to Mohan Singh, a little village in the Moghul Empire. It’s in the middle of an area having a lot of trouble with highway robbery and thievery in general. I’m supposed to scout around for a few months, do some blessings, the usual.”

“Get things to quiet down before everyone goes to Hell?”

Aziraphale pulled a face, “more or less. Once righteousness has a foothold in the area again, I’ll return back here to continue thwarting you and seeing to business as usual.”

Crowley hummed. There was no way he was going to let the angel go into a thieves' nest alone. Besides, if he was in the area, he could take credit for any large heist that managed to occur. Downstairs would like that, he was sure. His motivation was entirely selfish.

“We’ll go together. I’d offer to do it for you, per the Arrangement, but I’m not sure I could stomach so many blessings. And this way you can keep ‘thwarting’ me. Upstairs will like it if you do your assignment and thwart me at the same time.”

Aziraphale agreed, and Crowley was pleased he’d “tricked” Azira into it. What the trick was, precisely, he didn’t bother thinking about. But he was a sly, devious serpent.

The assignment, it turned out, wasn’t nearly as hard as it sounded. The legal code was pretty sound, and with the exception of a few hardened criminals, most thieves were just poor and suffering from a small famine. Some more significant redistributing of the wealth (Crowley) and some blessings of food and goodwill amongst neighbors (Aziraphale), and things were balanced out again.

Aziraphale, as it turned out, was rather fond of naan. And Crowley tried henna, which made his hair even redder. Aziraphale had laughed when he’d seen it, which was enough to encourage Crowley to do it several more times.

* * *

A week later, Matt texted Crowley that the ring was finished and he had the copied file, as requested. Crowley told ‘Zira he was going to get groceries for the week, and popped out. He stopped by the jeweler’s first, and picked up the ring and folio, before going to the grocer.

The ring was perfect. The titanium was a dark blue-grey, allowing the silver to stand out without seeming out of place. The infinity signs were smooth and delicate, little wings sprouting from the sides of the diamond. The stone itself was set in silver, catching the light in ways that made Crowley’s chest warm. He was going to _ propose _ to Aziraphale with this ring. 

Aziraphale would wear it, and the little diamond would catch people’s attention. A promise, a story, a history. 

Crowley all of the sudden understood why humans loved these little symbols so.

He closed the ring box. “Thank you,” he told Matt, his voice thick.

When he got back from the grocer’s, Crowley snuck the folio under a neglected stack of books on an aisle Aziraphale wasn’t currently reorganizing. His angel would find it eventually, probably in a month or two, given how anal he could be with his books. Then they could talk about the history of the diamond, and Crowley would call up Rohan and arrange a lunch for the three of them.

Assuming, of course, Aziraphale said yes.

For now, though, the folio was safe from prying eyes. Their annual dinner at the Ritz was Friday, and there was no way the angel would find it before then.

Friday afternoon, Aziraphale was dilly-dallying around his shop before he had to go get ready for their dinner. He was so nervous, no matter how many times he told himself he had no reason to be.

The angel shook his head and resumed roaming his neglected aisles, shuffling books around and making mental notes about how he wanted to reorganize things. Aziraphale would forget it all later, but it was the_ process _ that mattered; the process that kept him from going and hiding in a corner with The Picture of Dorian Gray, intent on forgetting the world.

Aziraphale frowned, spotting a red-brown folio under a stack of books on the third shelf of the fourth aisle of biblical texts (or what was going to be the fourth aisle of biblical texts, anyway). He didn’t remember owning a folio in that particular color. Perhaps it had been one of Adam’s additions to his collection? No, it was too new. The side that stuck out from the Gutenberg Bible directly on top of it was suspiciously dust-free.

Gently pulling it out from underneath the stack, Aziraphale examined the folio. A soft, sleek, modern leather that definitely didn’t belong. His frown deepened. Aziraphale thumbed the edge, intending to open it to divine what on earth it was doing there.

But right at that moment, the little grandfather clock in the back of the shop chimed a precise 5:00 pm.

Aziraphale jumped. “Oh goodness! I’ve got to-- I should-- oh bugger.”

He quickly set the folio on top of the book stack, and rushed to get dressed for their evening. Aziraphale paused at the end of what would be aisle four of biblical texts, glancing back at the mysterious folio, for just a second. A sigh, a wave of his hand, and the folio was covered in an appropriate amount of dust. He’d come back to it later.

Folios don’t have the same aptitude for gaining consciousness as, say, a book might. And even if it had been a book, it hadn’t been around these immortal beings and their collection of semi-sentient objects for long enough to gain some. But, if it was and it had, the little red-brown folio might’ve uttered a small sigh of relief. 

The little note it contained (“Thought you might want to know where your diamond came from --C”) stayed contained, and no surprise was ruined.

While the discovery of Crowley’s surprise for ‘Zira was (thankfully) _ not _ happening, the demon himself was upstairs, fussing about which suit to wear. It had to be fashion, it had to be traditional. It had to be snazzy, but not too cool as to make the angel suspicious. It had to highlight his corporation in all the right places.

In short, it had to be perfect.

He held up a grey jacket, then a black.

Crowley always wore black, shouldn’t he switch it up a bit, in honor of this momentous occasion? The grey had a nice flare at his hips, anyway. But it also was prone to wrinkling at unfortunate moments.

He hissed at the grey jacket and shoved it back in the closet. Black would have to do.

“Crowley dear, are you done in there? I’d like to get dressed before you’ve terrorized the closet into only producing skinny jeans again.”

Aziraphale never announced his presence before coming to get dressed, but Crowley, in his anxious state, didn’t notice this._ Fuck _, he mouthed to himself. 

“Jusst, just a sssecond, angel,” his mouth hissed traitorously. He clapped a hand at it, glaring into the air.

“Are-- are you alright?”

“Fine, fine,” he said, without a blessed hiss this time. Crowley shoved a certain box into his pocket and opened the door to wave his angel in. “I’ll finish getting ready in the loo.”

‘Zira shot him a strange look, “alright,” was all he said.

In the restroom, Crowley dug out the little notepad and pen they kept in there to stick reminders* on the mirror. He began a list of things he wanted to say to ‘Zira. Lists helped him keep his head attached and Crowley _ really did not _ want to fuck this up.

(*Usually things like “get milk” or “call Anathema back” or “customer mentioned a new plant you might like”, but occasionally the notes ventured into saccharine territory: “your eyes are wonderful dear, don’t ever think otherwise” or “I love your tum, angel, no matter what that bastard said” or even a simple “I love you”)

The list was something like this:

Bring up conversation about “proper proposal and everything”

Be suave

No hissing

<strike> “We’ve done almost everything together for the past </strike>

You’re more important to me than anything else in existence

<strike> We both like our human rituals so </strike>

I love you

Will you, Aziraphale, <strike> Guardian of the Eastern Gate </strike> <strike>,</strike> marry me?

Crowley looked at the two little sticky notes the list had taken up, then at his reflection. He mouthed a sentence or two, testing it out. Could he really say any of this?

He was saved from having to answer himself, because as soon as he asked the question, Crowley noticed his reflection’s hair. This would not do! There was not just one hair out of place, but many. 

Crowley snarled at the mirror. He crumpled the notes up and vanished them from existence. He was better at improvising, anyway. (He wasn’t, but that’s neither here nor there)

Grabbing the bottle of hair gel in a rather violent matter, Crowley had some _ words _ with his hair. “The fuck are you thinking, getting all wavy and _ floofy _ on this dam-- bles-- on this particular FUCKING evening??”

But the gel was too much, his hair hung slick and sad, like a plant that had been overwatered. The demon growled, uttered some more expletives, and miracled the gel out of his hair. Crowley grabbed a round brush, which he_ should’ve _ done in the first place, and aggressively-gently coaxed his hair into place.

That was better.

Somewhat. 

Crowley picked up the gel bottle again (this time using_ much less _ gel) and attempted to finish the taming process. He worked the front into a bit of a stylish spike.

There. It wasn’t his best work, but it was good, and he was too impatient to fuss with it more.

He miracled up a carnation to tuck in his jacket (didn’t want any of his plants getting ideas of favoritism). This was going to be fine, fine. Aziraphale would say yes. They’d talked about it.

Everything was going to work out fine.

Crowley’s leg bounced the entire drive to the Ritz. Thank Someone, Aziraphale didn’t comment on it.

Miraculously, there was no wait for a table. Their waitress was a cheery young lady with her hair in a bun. 

She sat them down with their menus and walked off to give them time to look it over. Barely a minute later, Aziraphale stood up. Crowley’s heart almost stopped before he realized Aziraphale wasn’t staring him down or leaving the restaurant.

“I’m er, going to have a brief word with the waitress. Make sure they have our favorite champagne in stock.”

His angel was full of bullshit, but Crowley waved him along anyway. He’d have plenty of opportunity to bug ‘Zira about whatever he was doing later. Right now, he was too wrapped up in his own thoughts and anxieties about the proposal to worry about ‘Zira pestering the waitress.

Crowley tried to get his leg to stop bouncing so much.

Aziraphale returned, and Crowley opened his mouth to say something, anything. No sound came out, so he shut it again. 

They sat in awkward silence. If Crowley had been able to look at Aziraphale, he might’ve noticed the angel was staunchly avoiding any possibility of eye contact. He might’ve seen the angel’s own tell-tale signs of nervousness. He might’ve seen that his love’s corporation was just as flushed and sweaty as his.

But he couldn’t, so he didn’t.

The silence stretched on.

Crowley fiddled with the ring box in his lap.

_ I can do this. I’ve had more than enough preparation tonight _.

More than enough preparation this month. This decade, even. 

_ Just go for it. This is the perfect moment _.

Their favorite fancy restaurant. Dressed up spectacularly. A celebration of what they had done together, the earth they were so fond of. So many years, filled with so much love. And hopefully many more to come.

_ I can do this. _

He opened the box, and tried not to glare at the little, perfect ring. A symbol of Crowley’s affection. A promise. 6000 years they’d been together (in one way or another), and this ring contained the hope of at least 6000 more.

“Champagne sirs?” Cheerful waitress was back, startling Crowley from his thoughts.

“O-oh, yes sure.” Crowley wished he didn’t sound so timid. He closed the ring box quietly.

The waitress gave him an all-too-knowing smile as she set the glasses down and poured the champagne. 

Crowley all of the sudden felt Aziraphale’s gaze fix on him.

Behind the safety of his glasses, Crowley closed his eyes and took a shuddery breath. When he opened them, she was gone*. He reached for the champagne glass, trying to avoid Aziraphale’s stare. Why _ was _ he staring?

(*It might interest you to know that the waitress immediately went to her coworkers, pointed at their table, and whispered something, grinning. It might also interest you that no fewer than two of her coworkers pulled out their cell phones to video the angel and demon. The beings in question, however, noticed none of this)

Crowley’s shaky hand almost knocked the glass over when he tried to pick it up. But it was alright, it was alright. He brought the glass to his lips, eager to taste the sweet bubbles and allow the alcohol to soothe his nerves.

Before he took a drink, however, his eyes caught sight of something in the bottom of his glass.

Simple and elegant. 

Pavé setting.

Gold band.

Flawless diamond.

A ring.

Crowley’s brain short-circuited. He set the glass down.

Finally, he looked up and met Aziraphale’s eyes. The angel had pulled a bouquet from who-knows-where. Forget-me-nots, bluebells, red tulips, white violets. Some distant part of Crowley’s mind registered them all as having romantic connotations in the Victorian era.

“Anthony J Crowley,” Aziraphale began, eyes alight, “will you ma--”

“No,” rasped Crowley, flabbergasted. His angel’s face fell. 

“O-oh.” It was small and horrid. Crowley had majorly fucked up.

“No! What I mean is--” he waved his hands about, exasperated, trying to find the words to make this right. ‘Zira’s eyes latched onto his left hand.

Crowley had forgotten he was still holding the ring box. Fuck. 

“What I mean IS,” he said again, getting up only to immediately kneel on one knee next to ‘Zira. “is that I’M not marrying YOU, YOU’RE marrying ME, you absolute _ bastard _.”

‘Zira gasped. “You-- you wily, horrible old serpent!” he cried, throwing the bouquet down and launching himself at Crowley. His demon wrapped him in a hug.

A round of applause spread around the restaurant, but neither of them paid much attention to it. Crowley _ did _ notice a certain wetness in his eyes, however. He gripped Aziraphale tighter.

“Is that,” the demon croaked, “is that a yes then?”

Aziraphale pulled back, smacking Crowley lightly on the arm. “Of course, you _ fiend _.”

Crowley kissed him then, with all the passion in him.

The waitress’s manager urged her to go congratulate the couple, but remind them that this was the _ Ritz _, and could they please not make out on the floor? So the young woman regretfully made her way over, and cleared her throat when she arrived next to the two kissing men.

“Are you ready to order?” she said in her best customer-service voice, falling back onto her well-worn script for lack of anything better to say.

Aziraphale broke away then, and looked sheepishly up at her. “We’ll need a minute, please, I believe,” he responded, trying (and failing) to be proper about it. ‘Zira started to stand and pulled the demon up with him.

The waitress nodded sharply and walked off.

“We best sit back down then,” the angel mused. His lips were red and his hair mussed and Crowley had never seen a more beautiful sight.

Wordlessly, they took their chairs. Aziraphale passed Crowley the bouquet. “Here, my dear, this is yours.”

Crowley took it, smelled the flowers, and began crying in earnest. His angel had put so much thought into this, taken care to show Crowley just how much the demon meant to him.

“Dear Lord, are you _ crying _? Oh goodness, it’s too much isn’t it?” I’m s--”

“Don’t you _ dare _ apologize,” Crowley sniffed. “It’s perfect. _ You’re _ perfect. I love you. You put so much effort into this and I’m so, so--” he hiccuped. His mortification kept him from finishing the thought, however, so he just examined the flowers.

“My dear,” ‘Zira said, voice full of emotion.

Crowley put the flowers down. He waved a hand at ‘Zira, “Give me your hand, angel.” 

He blinked away tears and pulled the ring out of the box. Aziraphale’s hand was warm, and a grounding weight. The last of Crowley’s anxieties slipped away. He carefully placed the ring on Aziraphale’s finger. Crowley admired it there for just a second before leaning down and kissing the back of ‘Zira’s hand.

“I love you, angel,” he repeated.

Aziraphale believed every word of it.

“It’s gorgeous, Crowley dear.”

Crowley had never been warmer in his serpentine life.

Aziraphale pulled his hand from Crowley’s and took his champagne glass, fishing about for the ring. A discrete miracle, and it was clean and dry. The demon stretched out his left arm, not waiting for the angel to ask.

The ring was angelic, golden and full of luster. Once it was on, ‘Zira cupped Crowley’s hand with both of his.

The angel chuckled. “We’re absolutely ridiculous, aren’t we?”

His demon gave a wry grin, “Perhaps. But better ridiculous together, here where we belong, than not at all.”

“My dear, I think that’s one of the soppiest things you’ve said all night, right after ‘you’re perfect I love you’.”

Crowley’s grin didn’t fade, but a faint blush did rise to his cheeks. “Shut up angel.”

When the waitress returned again to take their order, they didn’t turn her away.

**Author's Note:**

> Aaaaand that's all folks! Let me know what you think:)
> 
> I may write some shorter one-shots later (make this a series of sorts), but right now I'm exhausted from finishing this. Longest fic I've written yet (though one of my wip's will soon surpass it, but that's a chapter fic so it's in easier chunks). I've got a couple ideas of scenes I might want to write, such as: Aziraphale's preparations for the proposal, some cuddling fluff, picking out a cottage in the South Downs, and 'Zira finally looking in the folio. Would yall like to read any of that?
> 
> Also fun fact the nightmare Crowley has is pulled from a dream I had about the husbands where I was stuck in a groundhog day situation trying to get them together, and through different methods (but to the same effect) Aziraphale saw this nightmare of Crowley's (dream-ception, lol). So if it seems odd that War became a dragon and all that, blame my subconscious. 
> 
> Thank you for reading, and until next time!


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